


Flower of Belladonna

by teawithhoneyplease



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom - Susan Kay
Genre: /TAGS CONTAIN SPOILERS/, Alcohol, Alternate History, Blind Character, Blindness, Body Dysmorphia, Body Horror, Body Image, Body Integrity Dysphoria, Body Integrity Identity Disorder, Body Modification, Chemistry, Coercion, Dialogue Heavy, Drug Use, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional Roller Coaster, F/M, Geniuses, Going Blind, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Injury, Inner Dialogue, Insanity, Manipulative Relationship, Medical, Medical Conditions, Medical Experimentation, Medical Procedures, Medical Trauma, Mental Coercion, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Methanol, Poisoning, Psychological Drama, Psychological Horror, Psychological Trauma, Tags Contain Spoilers, Whump, i really like tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:27:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29215668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teawithhoneyplease/pseuds/teawithhoneyplease
Summary: Every poisonous nightshade needs its flower. Luckily for the opera ghost, he comes to learn that his flower would prefer to bloom in darkness.COMPANION PIECE/ALTERNATE ENDING to "Unseen" by ShameWithoutSin.WIP. Longfic because my brain can't write anything else.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 27
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ShameWithoutSin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShameWithoutSin/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Unseen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29159604) by [ShameWithoutSin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShameWithoutSin/pseuds/ShameWithoutSin). 



> Hello! This is "Erik The Red Death" from FF.net. Really excited to be here and post my first thing.
> 
> After reading "Unseen" by ShameWithoutSin, I literally stayed up all night to start this bad boy. This plot, dude. If you've read Thrall, you know ShameWithoutSin's sense for storyline is unreal.
> 
> PLEASE READ BEFORE READING:
> 
> Because this work is based on Unseen, please PLEASE read the original work (besides, it's beautifully written):  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/29159604
> 
> This "alternate ending" begins after their quote, "No, the job would certainly have to be done when she was where she was meant to be."  
> I absolutely love the way they wrote Christine's thoughts in the beginning, so that first half is kind of the prologue to this work, if you will. Okay, enough rambling. Happy reading!

Before this afternoon, Erik had never broken his promise. After Christine's first evening in the house on the lake, he had never again crossed the threshold to the Louis-Philippe room. True to his word, it was the one place in his strange home that was truly hers in every right, somewhere intended to make her feel safe amongst the oddity that was the rest of his dwelling. It was this promise to her that made him feel as if he were committing a horrible betrayal, as his slippered feet found the plushness of the afghan rug. The distinct, almost overwhelming scent of rosewater, feminine and delicate, was nearly enough to make him turn and abandon his mission, but there was nothing to be done now. The damage was already done, as he stood in the middle of her territory. But now that he was here, he might as well make it worth his while. He had come in here for a reason, after all: the child was obviously hiding something from him.

It was trivially easy for him to tell. Christine had arrived at his home over a week ago now: the opera had taken their recess between performances and would not be holding rehearsal for several weeks. But- to his dismay- was spending much more time in the Louis-Philippe room than usual, and he now heard the second lock of her bath-room door every time she retired for the evening. Then, each morning- yes, each one since she's arrived!- she had emerged from the Louis-Philippe room with golden hair thoroughly brushed through, strands like spun gold weaved into various patterns, as if she had been practicing. A few times she had caught him staring at it unabashedly but said nothing in response. Such allowance of impropriety was abnormal for her, but he welcomed it.

He knew her species was prone to a particular sort of vanity- constantly ruffling their feathers and preening themselves for a potential mate. While he had never taken Christine to be that sort of girl, it was not the sole action of personal grooming that intrigued him so. No, it was the fact that she was doing so, knowing she only had him for company. She had not even travelled above since she returning to his home over a week ago from a market trip, bearing groceries. It was normal for her to spend up to a fortnight in the house on the lake; still, despite the fact that she would not be seeing anyone but him, she arrived at his breakfast table for the ninth morning in a row, looking too radiant to ignore. As always, Erik never forgot to remind her how beautiful she was, but that was where his suspicion of her began: she appreciated his compliments out of politeness, but there was something else lurking underneath that perplexing feminine expression that told him, very clearly, that this newfound concern for her appearance was not as innocently placed as he once hoped.

After all, there was the ever-remaining fact that the child was terrified of him. Yes, it was true that even upon finding out the truth of his deception she had returned faithfully to the house on the lake, but he knew this was simply out of fear of retribution should she refuse. Or… at least at first. This definitely could have been possible in the beginning, when she made the journey to the cellar- five stories below the surface of the earth- only when he requested it of her. But now, nearly five months after their first meeting, he was no longer able to convince himself that she stayed in his home out of fear. Especially when this particular stay was the third she had initiated on her own. Surprised as he was when she shyly asked it of him- _again! so soon after her last stay_ \- he reminded her that this was as much her home as his. This seemed to calm her significantly; even so, that evening was the first that she spent in her bathroom.

The poor girl tried to hide it, but her continued terror at the sight of him was impossible to ignore. Of course, he didn't blame her for this one bit, and would have found the reaction to his visage distinctly normal if it were not for the surrounding behavior involved. Even as she _asked_ to stay in his home, perfectly willing to sit across the dining table from him and discuss the matter of their day, he couldn't help but notice the instinctual tremor in her hand whenever she dared glance at him. As long as her gaze was deviated to her plate or the pattern of the tablecloth, though, she was able to hold quite a pleasant conversation with him.

This in of itself was not a strange reaction: while he knew full well that he possessed the face of death, his speaking voice, deep and melodious, was as supremely beautiful as his singing voice. Still, as graceful as it was, her sudden willingness as of this visit to give into its hypnotic timbre was confounding him. She used to fight it, constantly, battling for dominance over her own mind like she would die if she lost awareness. Perhaps this was how she truly felt at some point: Erik looked enough like a monster that it would've been fair to assume him to act like one. Now, though, after six months of being the perfect gentleman, she was further submitting to the splendor of his voice with each passing day, even as her physical terror of him remained persistent.

It frustrated him greatly that he could not find the reason for her odd behavior, that was only growing increasingly perplexing by the day. The first evening of her stay began her nightly bathroom escapades, and the mornings after provided evidence of her increased grooming. The fourth evening, helped considerably along by the mesmerizing echo of his voice, she sang the Jewel Song from Faust with more joy and enthusiasm than she had ever shown for her lessons. He was growing more eager by the day for her debut in the production, set for a month from now. And yet, she alarmed him with one final symptom, one that persisted through their subsequent days' lessons. So anomalous it was, that it finally cemented the need to investigate firmly in his mind.

The child did not look at him. Yes, she did not do so beforehand, but no longer did she keep her gaze trained away from him, inclined instead to look at the other decorations that adorned his home. Instead, Christine kept her eyes closed! He did not see the blue of her irises throughout the entirety of their lesson, which spanned the usual length of two hours. The first time this occurred, it disturbed him. Yes, while most members of the human race made the effort not to look at him, there was still a unanimous, instinctual desire to see. It seemed that his Christine was the one exception, but as she sang for him with the beauty of the heavens, he found it impossible to be upset. She was a particularly intelligent girl and had memorized most of her repertoire by now, so her lack of sight did not impede their progress in the least. If anything, he was delighted to find that she was a great deal more agreeable when she couldn't see. And so, he decided not to question it, even making it easier for her over the coming days by lighting considerably fewer candles. His eyes, golden and catlike, did not need the light to see his music, and he had only been lighting them for her convenience. Noting the air of calm that had settled over the dimmed living room, a precious thing for an evening in the house on the lake, he took an opportunity to test a budding theory.

On this night, candles sparse, over a week since she had seen the sun, he struck. His steps from the piano to where she stood were silent, but when he touched her, she did not flinch like she normally would. It was an almost overwhelming moment- to have his touch accepted- but ultimately he forced composure as he coaxed her shoulders to drop. She complied easily, and when he began to sing with her, she continued not to fight him. After their lesson ended, she fell asleep outside the safety of the Louis-Philippe room for the very first time, dozing on the living-room sofa in front of the fire. As he watched his cat slink up to the girl and use her stomach as a napping pillow, Erik knew she would not wake for a little while. With the Louis-Philippe room unattended for the first time in over a week, Erik could not control his painful curiosity any longer. He must find out what she is doing in there.

And so, that is where he found himself now. Distinctly uncomfortable amongst the overwhelming air of femineity in that room, but now unable to leave until he found what he was looking for. Of course, he really had no idea what it was he was looking for, but in his intelligence, he decided to skip searching the vanity and head straight for the bath room. That, of course, was where the source of her unusual behavior had to be.

His search of her bath room went nothing like he originally expected. For starters, he had not planned to find the anomaly so easily. But now that he had, he was stunned that it did not give him any answers, only more questions. Lumbering from the Louis-Philippe room with a grave expression, he knew he must speak to his charge about keeping lethal substances amongst her eye drops.


	2. Chapter 2

When Christine awoke, she was immediately startled to open her eyes and see Erik's tall, thin form looming over her- until she realized that she had fallen asleep on the sofa. This was most unusual for her, and she immediately blushed.

"I am sorry," she stammered, embarrassed. "How rude of me."

"Not at all, my dear."

In addition to his nonchalant demeanor, she was surprised to find him offering her a cup of tea. Taking the saucer from him with a soft _thank you_ , she lifted the cup to her nose to notice that it was a nightcap. Appreciating the gesture- especially because of what she was planning to do once she retired to her bedroom- she took a sip to warm her throat. He approached the other armchair with a matching cup, taking his time to settle into his seat before speaking again.

"How are you, Christine?"

His tone was genuine, and Christine knew that he actually wanted to hear. Still, she swallowed her truth.

"I am fine, Erik," she replied pleasantly, taking another sip of her tea. The cognac warmed her chest and brought relief to her tense muscles. If she would look at him, she would've seen that he was unconvinced.

"Really, Christine?" He questioned again. "Is that the truth?"

She furrowed her brow but did not look up. She wanted to close her eyes but knew he would find it too odd at this proximity. "Of course, Erik. Why would you ask such a thing?"

Erik did not hesitate to expose her deception.

"Because my dear, we both know that is a lie." His tone was light, but calculating, and it immediately frightened her. She glanced up then, and her hand shook. "Because we both know that- if you were truly all right- you would not be keeping tincture of belladonna in your bath room."

He produced the little bottle from his waist-coat pocket, and her heart immediately dropped into her stomach. Stupidly, the only thing she could think to say first was, "You went into my bed room?"

"Yes, I did." He was quick to admit it, even if he sounded regretful. "I apologize for the intrusion, but your distress has been quite clear to me for over a week now."

Staring into her dazed, childlike eyes, he likened her to a toddler that had just been caught with her papa's matchbox. Continuing, he kept his voice light and calming, looking for answers more than to reprimand.

"Now, my Christine, you are going to tell me exactly what you were planning on doing with this."

She swallowed another sip of her tea to combat the feeling of her blood running cold. "It wasn't intended for you," she stammered.

He laughed then: it was a deep, melodious sound, like the ringing of bells.

"Of course it wasn't. I know that, child. You are far too gentle a creature to think of such a thing." This was the truth: of all the possibilities running through his mind, his possible murder was not one of them. "That still does not answer my question, I'm afraid. What was a lethal substance doing amongst your toiletries?"

"Please don't make me tell you," she begged, beginning to cry. Despite her innate, unexplainable desire, she knew what it looked like from the outside. "You will think me mad. I will throw it in the lake, if that pleases you."

"I have already confiscated it from you, and so this will not sate me." She knew this would be the case. Staring into the contents of her cup, she thought of exactly what she would say. "In addition, I already think you rather deranged, so providing me an explanation would do nothing but possibly prove your sanity to me."

With a sigh of resignation, Christine relented. Finishing the rest of her tea, she asked the question she had been thinking of for weeks.

"Erik, do you love me?"

Erik had no idea what this had to do with the poison in her bedroom, but still he did not hesitate. "Of course I do, my dear. You have heard me tell you more times than I can count."

She knew this, and yet it was still incredibly difficult to say what she did next. It felt as if she were choking on the words.

"Well, I love you too, Erik."

His breath caught in his throat, but he did not react. These were the words he had been waiting to hear since he first heard her voice- and yet, as they were coupled with her tears, he was utterly nonplussed. He allowed her time to compose herself and continue.

"I love you so much," Christine cried, as if she had been waiting for an eternity to release those words. Helped along significantly by the alcohol, the words flowed freely from her now and she could no longer control the tide. "Erik, your voice makes me feel as if I have ascended to heaven itself. Every time I make the journey down here, my heart beats faster in anticipation of hearing it. I would never leave this house again if it meant I would never be without it."

"Then don't," he said quickly, his own heart swelling.

"But I can't!" She sobbed.

Nonplussed indeed. Her hands shook as she dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. Unable to take the tension in the room anymore, she confessed.

"In my mind, I am no longer afraid of you. I cannot be. I know that you love me and would never hurt me. But- and I hate myself for it every day- I cannot look at you. Every time I do, my body betrays me in a wave of panic I cannot help. It’s debilitating- and I have no idea what is wrong with me." More weeping, followed by burying her face into the handkerchief. It was clear that this conflict of mind versus nature was causing her great pain. Finally, it all came together with, "I can't help but think this entire issue would be remedied if I were blind."

There was an unimaginable silence in the room then, after her statement. She couldn't bear to look at him, and not because of the way his image frightened her. It was a painfully long time before he spoke.

"You were planning on putting this in your eyes."

His tone was light, because he knew he was right. After a beat, she sighed, "Now you really do think me mad."

"No, I do not." Finally, she looked at him, and her expression betrayed surprise. Her hand shook, but she did not turn away. "I think you determined and courageous, yet woefully out of your depth."

Surprise turned to confusion. He continued.

"While belladonna is known to damage the eyes, the main ingredient in this tincture that would blind you is the alcohol," he explained knowledgeably. "Have you tried it yet?"

She shook her head. "I was going to tonight. I was too afraid."

"And for good reason. You would have been screaming and writhing in pain, poor thing," he tutted. Suddenly, she felt very stupid. "In addition, there is only a very small possibility that it would actually work. The only thing you would surely accomplish is hurting your pretty blue eyes, and we wouldn't want that."

Christine said nothing. For a moment, she felt quite hopeless. But then, he finished with, "Whoever sold this to you is an idiot. You should have come to me sooner."

He stood swiftly, leaving her to simmer as he disappeared down the hallway of the house on the lake. After a moment, she could hear the sound of glass hitting the bottom of a waste basket. Shaken and anxious, she suddenly wished that she had more tea. There was one thing she knew for certain, though, and it calmed her slightly as she awaited his return: he did not think her insane.

This was true. Erik had meant every word he said to her, despite being in complete wonder that she would want such a thing. But it was clear that she did: why, the girl had gone so far as to procure a toxic substance without telling him! Thus, he could conclude that this… affliction of hers has been causing her distress for some time. In his infinite love for her, Erik knew that this wouldn't do. It was this observation that cemented in his mind what had to be done now. There was no chance in hell that he would refuse this golden opportunity. He had waited far too long for Christine to return his love, and if she required blindness to remain with him for the rest of her days, then so be it. Christine could never ask for too much of him. As long as she could sing, nothing else mattered. Determined to forever remain her sole companion and caregiver, Erik returned to the living room. She did not look at him, but he did not expect it. He would have to become used to it, anyways.

He stood in front of her chair, pausing for a moment to choose his words carefully. The last thing he wanted to do was dissuade her of her decision, but he also did not want the girl to resent him in the future.

"Christine, I will not insult your intelligence by reminding you of consequences you already know of. In the same respect, I will not ask you this more than once. Are you sure that this is what you want?"

After a deep breath, she nodded. Then, she said, "But Erik, I must ask you the same thing. It was irresponsible of me not to consider if you would even want to care for an invalid-"

"-My dear, I would love you even if you were dumb and lame," he interrupted her, with all the sincerity in the world.

Immediately, her anxious thoughts were quieted. _This was Erik_ , she remembered. Even if her own body betrayed her in a torment she couldn't explain, there was nothing that could make her doubt his devotion to her. She had no idea what she had done to deserve it, but she would be forever grateful for his guidance. When he spoke again, his tone was calming and beautiful. She closed her eyes.

"Go into your room and change into your lightest nightdress and dressing gown, nothing else," he instructed mellifluously. She felt something be placed in her lap, and she opened her eyes to find one his silk neckties there. "Use this to bind your eyes for now, if you wish."

For a moment, she simply stared at her lap. Then, her little voice asked, "Erik?"

"Yes, dove?"

She seemed to have a hard time finding the words she wanted. "I… I want you to know that the reason I want this is not because I think there is something wrong with you. Actually, quite the opposite."

He nodded in understanding. "Your own body is giving you grief that you can't control. You are simply ill, Christine, and one thing is very clear to me. You want this because of your love for me."

He had not expected to strike such a chord. He hated seeing her cry, but knew that these tears were simply an outpouring of relief from finally being understood. Hers was quite an uncommon predicament to be in, he admitted, but fortunately for his dove uncommon predicaments were the story of his life. After a minute more to compose herself, she followed his instructions and obediently closed herself into the Louis-Philippe room.


	3. Chapter 3

Christine found herself looking in the mirror for what she knew would be the last time. Dressed delicately in the gorgeous silk nightclothes and robe from the wardrobe he provided for her, she stared deeply into her own reflection. She did not try to memorize every last detail- like some girls her age would, given the same circumstances: simply, she had an honest communion with herself and came to the conclusion that she liked what she saw. No, this was not a reassurance to her vanity in her final minutes of vision. More, an understanding that she was instead _anything but_ vain, and did not need the image reflecting back at her to determine her self-worth. Even when she ceased to gaze upon them, she would know that her curls would stay the same golden color, and those countless freckles would never leave her nose, even in winter. Even if she forgot sometimes, she was sure Erik would always be there to remind her how beautiful she was, and how much she was loved. And so, humming a little in order to calm her own beating heart, Christine said her goodbye to the world of depth, shape, and color. Special goodbyes went to the emerald green of the morning-dewed grass, to the pale, ethereal blue of the expansive sky above her, and to the memory of her father's face. His image was fading from her memory now, with time, but this strangely made it easier to accept that soon everything else would suffer the same fate. As she tied a knot in the silk around her head, tightly binding her eyes, she said hello to the music constantly lilting in her head: his music.

__________________________________________________

Erik gave her ample time to prepare, knowing he had plenty of it to spare. After all, it wasn't like the child was going anywhere, even if she wanted to: there was much to be done, and he liked to begin as quickly as possible. He wanted this little inconvenience to be over as much as she did, and so after leaving her he went straight to his chemical stores to ensure he had what he needed. His laboratory featured the necessary requirements for many branches of science, including but not limited to geology, botany, anatomy, physics, and- his most favorite of all- chemistry. Fortunately, the active agents he required for this particular little procedure were extremely common, and he owned them in good supply. Soon lined up all the necessary supplies from his laboratory and cellar on the dining room table: his medical bag, counterbalance scale, and drugs of choice, along with a bottle of wine and a glass. Stoking the fire in the living room and placing several blankets and pillows on the sofa, he then returned to the door of the Louis-Philippe room. He knocked twice.

"Christine? May I come in?"

"Yes," her precious voice answered, and so he did.

She was sitting on the edge of her bed, eyes bound in black silk. Just as he expected, when he took her by the upper arm, she neither flinched nor resisted his touch. Once again, it confirmed for him that this was the correct course of action.

"Walk with me, dove," he guided her, and she followed obediently.

Out of habit, she knew he was taking her from the Louis-Philippe room and into the hallway, but he stopped in front of the door that had remained closed and locked through her whole time there. A small part of her wished that she could see, but she knew that he was only allowing her in there because she couldn't. In this way, she was already quite happy to be blind.

"This is my laboratory," he explained to her, trusting her not to peek.

Most of the room was taken up by shelves and workbenches. Holding her firmly with both hands, so that she did not run into anything, he brought her to one corner of the room. There stood a spring scale, which he had her feel with her slippered toes, then step onto. Without the added burden of bustles, skirts, and corset, he was able to obtain an accurate weight.

"Forty-five kilograms," he noted verbally, if she was curious. She was a tiny little thing, all azure irises and golden curls, and he found it profoundly adorable. If anything, it made his job all that much easier that night.

Presently, Christine found herself being led into the familiar warmth that was the living room. Despite being five stories below the surface of the earth, Erik's house on the lake was comfortable and lush, with luxurious amenities such as running water, indoor plumbing, and good ventilation for all of the fireplaces. Never while she was there had she gone cold or hungry, and enough opulence surrounded her to be assured that she would live in this same level of comfort for the rest of her days. At present, Erik escorted her to the sofa and coaxed her to take a seat, and after placing a warmed blanket in her lap, he presented her with another cup of tea. It was always like Erik to know exactly what she needed: this time, the taste of cognac was much stronger.

"Relax, and make yourself comfortable," he cooed hypnotically. She couldn't help the heaviness that evaded her head as a result.

He left her side, but she could hear that he was still close by, tinkering with something in the dining room. Just then, a certain Siamese cat pushed her way into Christine's awaiting hand, and she was glad to have a distraction from her nerves as she waited for him to return.

After doing some very careful math, Erik weighed a precise amount of liquid from a dark-colored bottle. He had quarreled a bit with himself on the dosage: he did not want to permanently harm her, but also wanted to thoroughly ensure the desired result. Settling for exactly twelve grams of pure methyl alcohol, he triple-checked the accuracy of his counterbalance scale before adding the minuscule amount of liquid to a glass of red wine. Topping off the morbid cocktail with a very generous dose of laudanum, he returned to his beloved quickly.

He had also brought with him a chair from the dining room table, setting it down in front of the sofa and taking a seat. After gently, sweetly calling her name, he pushed the wine glass into her waiting hands, watching her give it a curious sniff.

"I've already had quite a lot to drink," she said.

"That is my intention," he explained. Erik was still waiting for the scientific community abroad to realize that those who died the least often from toxic alcohol poisoning were those who self-medicated with safe alcohol- that is, the heavy drinkers. It was a simple correlation, by his standards. "In addition to making you more comfortable, it will protect you from the nastier consequences of the active ingredient."

"Which is?" Christine asked, after a hesitation. She doubted if she wanted to know.

"Methyl alcohol," he answered simply. "Not enough to kill you, of course, but certainly enough to cause complete vision loss."

A pause. "Will it hurt?" She sounded anxious. Erik had expected it.

"Not a bit," he reassured her kindly. "The wine has a good dose of laudanum for now. But you will feel very sick for at least two days, and then need to recover for a little while."

She nodded. Erik could see, in every visible feature of her face, that this is what she wanted; still, understandably, she was afraid.

"You'll take care of me?"

"Always," he cooed, tone smooth and persuading. "Do not worry, dear heart, because after this you will worry for nothing again."

She said nothing, but a moment later sealed her own fate. Beginning to drink, she grimaced at the familiar, bitter taste of opium.

"You will sleep as the wine runs its course," he continued. He made sure not to mention the methyl alcohol again, as not to scare her. "After you wake, I will do everything I can to keep you comfortable. Finish it, Christine, as quickly as you can."

To her slight dismay, Christine could taste nothing but laudanum and wine. Really, there was nothing about the mixture that immediately distinguished it from the usual glass he gave her when she occasionally couldn't sleep. If she thought hard enough, she could pretend the same thing was happening now. In fact, this wasn't that much different at all: she was giving herself nightmares of a certain sort, and as always, Erik was there to fix it. She allowed the blindfold to calm her as she drank; while she did, he made it a point to continue light, quiet conversation, distracting her from the poison in her glass. Forcing herself to ignore the awful bitterness on her tongue, she swallowed the remainder of the liquid.

"Very good girl," he hummed, causing a preemptive wave of drowsiness to wash over her. After offering her some water to clear her mouth, he relieved her of both of the glasses.

To his continued delight, his dear girl did not fight his touch, cold as his skin was. With slow, gentle movements, he coaxed her to lay down on the sofa, settling her head next to his chair. The last thing he wanted was to frighten her: the deed was already done, and everything would go much smoother with the child calm and sedated. As such, both his hands and his voice worked with a tenderness only reserved for her, assuring himself that the opium would tranquilize her soon. She deserved nothing less than to undergo this process with as little fear and pain as he could manage. He cared for no one else in the world more than her, and so she was the only one that could evoke empathy from the life-battered man. Erik tried to pull away from her once he had pulled a blanket over her form, but one of her soft little hands reached out blindly and found a single, bony finger on his right hand. He almost melted at the gesture.

"I'm scared," she admitted, voice childlike. She didn't think she would be, but now she couldn't help it.

"I know, but you do not have to be," Erik cooed, placing her hand back onto the blanket. "I am going to play for you, and then you will sleep. When you wake, this little issue will be a thing of the past."

This answer calmed her nerves beautifully; in addition, the alcohol was already beginning to relax her. And so, she allowed Erik to sit beside her and pick up his violin. In his everlasting consideration, he knew exactly the piece to reassure his nervous little songbird. As the haunting strains of _The Resurrection of Lazarus_ echoed through the house on the lake, he watched her closely. Settling onto her side, she pulled the thick blanket over her shoulders, rested her head onto the awaiting pillow, and listened to his music. The piece was long enough to distract her until the drink had settled in her stomach, when the impressive dose of laudanum began to run its course. Despite knowing surrender was inevitable, a last wave of fear gripped her, and she fought against the drowsiness that consumed her. Erik could see her struggle but would not allow it.

"Shhh," he hushed her, setting down his instrument in order to comfort his other, living one. As he ran his fingers through her hair, the child practically melted. He couldn't wait for her blindness to be permanent. "Just the laudanum, dove, you know this. Deep breaths… that's it, good girl."

Following the guidance of that low, soothing voice, Christine relaxed against the plush sofa. As the drug began to overwhelm her, his cool, violin-calloused fingers combed through her golden curls. Tonight was the first time he had done so, but with a heady sigh she hoped it wouldn't be the last. He sang a lullaby in order to help the drug along, knowing his voice to be a soporific in its own right. Slow and deeply hypnotic, he smiled victoriously when the line _good night, dear heart_ was highly successful: the girl finally submitted to the laudanum, now the very picture of serenity. His voice was there to ease her into a deep, comfortable sleep.

__________________________________________________

Erik had dosed the laudanum perfectly. Methyl alcohol, in the correct amount, takes twelve hours to cause permanent blindness. Christine slept for fourteen.


	4. Chapter 4

Erik allowed her to rest undisturbed as he began his note taking. After all, he was never the one to refuse an opportunity for a case study, and this would prove an excellent one to add to his chemistry and physiology research. Normally, when it comes to examining the effects of toxic substances, the scientist is left to guess how much the patient took, how long ago they took it, and what happened before they arrived in observation. For this convenient experiment, though, he had been given complete control of all of that, and he was thoroughly excited to record and compile his results.

_ Christine Daae (referred to as patient), aged 20 and 10 months, measuring 1.53m tall and 45 kg in weight on February twelfth, 1882. Presented with complaints of visual delusions and attacks of hysteria for two months, only successfully mitigated by a blindfold until more permanent measures were taken on the day of this report. At half past 7pm patient was dosed with 45mL of cognac. At 8pm patient was dosed with 12 grams of pure methyl alcohol, 15mL of tincture of opium (laudanum, standard preparation), 150mL of red wine (good quality French vintage). Unconsciousness observed 15 minutes post ingestion. This report contains the results of a proposed experimental treatment of methyl alcohol poisoning via oral medication of ethyl alcohol. _

It was much better for her to sleep, he knew. While the process of the alcohol destroying her optic nerves would be completely painless, he certainly did not need her running about his house, disoriented and panicking as the world suddenly went dark. Yes, blindness was exactly what she wanted, but in his mind there wasn't a more terrifying thing he could think of than being awake and conscious to witness yourself lose your sight. In addition, methyl alcohol is known to make the drinker vomit, and he definitely wanted the entire dose to stay in and take its effect: heaven forbid she force some of it up preemptively and then retain some ability to see him. No, that wouldn't do. As he watched his Christine peacefully pass this leg of the journey in placid, opiate stillness, free from nausea for the time being, he was entirely convinced that it was for the best. Why, curled up in front of the fire with his immense cat, the child looked positively  _ sedate _ .

_ 2 am, February the 13th, 6 hours post ingestion. Patient is unconscious and free of pain. First dose of ethyl alcohol (now to be referred to simply as alcohol or by the administered drink name) holding vitals steady, heart beating at 50 beats per minute and respiration strong. Visual examination of the eyes shows the pupils are just beginning to dilate- the methanoic acid must have begun arriving from the liver. Dosed again involuntarily with 90mL of cognac. _

_ 3 am. 7 hours post. Patient is unconscious and free of pain. Pupils continue to dilate but still react to light. _

_ 4 am. 8 hours post. First serving of alcohol starting to lose efficacy, heart rate has dipped and breathing has become slightly labored. Patient dosed involuntarily with another 90mL of cognac. _

_ 6 am. 10 hours post. Second dose of cognac successful in temporarily mitigating vital function repression. Patient continues to sleep. Dosed with 90mL of cognac. _

_ 9 am. 13 hours post. Pupils completely fixed and dilated with diminished reactions to light, but regression has stalled within the last half hour. Patient begins to stir as the laudanum loses efficacy. _

_ 10 am. 14 hours post. Patient begins to fully wake and will be dosed with 90mL of cognac mixed with honey. Visual acuity appears, at first glance, to be completely debilitated. _

__________________________________________________

The first thing Christine felt, upon waking, was the overwhelming urge to vomit. Thankfully, Erik's instincts were quick, and he had her suspended over an awaiting chamber pot before she vomited the contents of her empty stomach. The taste of stomach acid and bile was what brought her fully into consciousness, which is when she noticed two things.

Her eyes had been freed of their silk prison, and yet as she blinked hopelessly, she still could not see. Nothing at all, except a general glow of the fireplace.

"That's it, my dear, better out than in." As always, Erik's voice was there to comfort her. "You're all right, just relax."

Once it was clear she had finished, he helped her settle back down. She moaned pitifully, but did not resist him- the nausea was overwhelming, and without her sight the dizziness she felt was amplified tenfold. She reclined against the sofa, and he helped her to drink a glass of water. She was grateful for it, finishing it despite her uneasy stomach, but immediately resisted against the next thing he held to her lips.

"No, please," she begged, turning her head away desperately. He felt nothing but pity for the poor child, but it had to be done. Holding her chin firmly in one hand, he pressed the glass to her lips once more in wordless command. She eventually submitted, and the first sip of cognac burned her throat as it went down, despite the honey he had mixed into it.

"I know," he cooed, forcing her to swallow twice before he pulled the glass away. She coughed miserably, and it pulled directly on his heart strings. "It is necessary, Christine."

Once she had recovered somewhat, he adjusted her gently in her place. He had taken off his mask, as there was no point to it now: her pupils had fixed and dilated an hour ago. Ensuring that she was comfortably reclined against a myriad of pillows, he pressed the glass into her hands, as there was still quite a bit more left. It was a very stiff pour, more than he had ever given her in one sitting.

"Finish it. Quickly as you're able, but do not rush."

"I can't," she cried, chills wracking every inch of her small frame. The fire was well stoked and burning beautifully, and yet she had never felt so cold and weak.

"You can," he reassured her, tone sincere. "You are so strong, dove. I know you can."

When she did not lift the glass to her lips for a few minutes, Erik thought woefully that he was going to have to force every last drop past those pretty pink lips. But, in a miracle that he was too elated not to thank some higher power for, the girl began to drink on her own. 

"Good girl," he commended her, calming himself. After another pause, he finally added the question that needed to be asked. "You can't see?"

She shook her head, taking another tentative sip of her drink. It was the last thing she wanted, but she wouldn't directly disobey him.

"Nothing," she replied softly.

While her tone was somber, there was no real sadness there. Of course, there would be a time, in the future, when she would grieve the loss of her vision. For now, though, despite the horrible sickness that plagued her entire body, all she could feel was relief.

"Shapes, color, shadow?" He prodded further, tone anticipatory.

"Nothing," she repeated weakly. "The light from the fire, but nothing else." Unable to see his wide, victorious smile, she added, "Is it permanent?"

"Very," he reassured her. "You will never have to worry about it again."

Christine absorbed his words with another obedient sip of her drink. "Do my eyes look the same?" She asked curiously, in a lingering moment of vanity.

"No, but I love them even more now," he indulged her, taking a sip from his own cognac glass. "Your pupils are very prettily dilated, thinly outlined in their native pale blue."

It relieved her to know that Erik still enjoyed what she looked like. Even if she couldn't, she supposed someone should.

"My head hurts," she complained suddenly, though it had been paining her since she woke up.

"I know," he tutted sympathetically. "It's going to get worse before it gets better. I will be here with you the whole time."

She paled a little at his warning, but dutifully finished the rest of her cognac with a heady little cough. As he expected, she was suddenly very drowsy. "Erik?"

"Yes, dove?"

"Would you sit with me?"

His breath caught in his throat, but he forced himself not to cry. Instinctively, he asked, "Would you like me to put on the mask, Christine?"

She furrowed her brow. "No, Erik. Is that not why we did this?"

"Quite right, my dear," he said quickly. He took a moment to compose himself, comforting himself with the fact that she couldn't see. "I apologize, I am afraid this is going to take me some getting used to."

She was going to say something in response, but it was clear that the alcohol was affecting her. _Poor girl_ , Erik noticed, _she has never been able to hold her spirits well._ Moving his seated position onto the sofa, this morning became one of many firsts. He audibly gasped when the little angel curled up beside him- her curl-haloed head finding his shoulder- but he forced himself to realize that this would now be his new normal. No one, in his entire miserable life, had been so utterly unafraid of him; the sight of him had terrified _her_ as well, only half a day ago. But now that there was no sight to behold, she seemed perfectly content to treat him like any other man. It was then that Erik was struck with the pure ingenuity of this solution.  _ And why- he didn't even have to suggest it himself! _

Testing his luck, Erik wrapped his arms around her slight frame, tears streaming down his face beside himself when she did not so much as flinch. He kept his emotion silent and his breathing steady, though, and so of course she did not notice his bewilderment. He needed to care for her with a clear, scientific mind, and he could not do that while blubbering like an idiot. Forcing himself to retain his poise, he brought his long legs to lie across the length of the sofa and adjusted her so that she was laying across his chest. Inebriated as she was, she did not resist him. There was a woolen afghan between them, and so the bones of his thin chest did not bother her as she relaxed into him; with resignation, he knew that if this level of intimacy was to continue, he would have to start eating more- if only for her comfort. The pose was completely unnatural for him- lying with someone beloved across the sofa- but he soon settled into it. As she drifted off to sleep again, he was there to whisper assurances into her ear and stroke her hair.


	5. Chapter 5

With horror, Christine realized upon waking next that Erik was exactly right: it was worse. Much worse.

Her head was killing her. She had only experienced a few times in her short life the all-too-common illness after a night of too much drinking, but to her dismay this felt like that multiplied by a thousand. She kept remembering that it was the first glass of wine that had poisoned her, but was utterly convinced that the antidote was making her sicker than the toxic substance itself. She had never had much of a tolerance for alcohol, and after vomiting heavily into the trustily awaiting chamber pot, she protested blindly against the familiar glass of cognac he pushed into her hands.

"No, no more," she pleaded, throat already burning from stomach acid. "I'll be sick-"

"-Then be sick," he replied apathetically. He was sitting beside her, arm wrapped around her waist. "I am very sorry, my dear, but this is not up for discussion. If you do not begin to drink, I will have to force you."

Erik watched a few tears run down the child's pale, clammy face, but she seemed to realize that he was fully capable of carrying out his threat. She did not argue again; while she coughed lightly against it, she took a sip of the glass in resignation. The alcohol had been mixed with a good quantity of cream and honey, and so it did not burn like she was expecting.

The room was warm, and she was layered in blankets, and yet she was still shivering from equal amounts of illness and chill. Despite the fact that he wasn’t much warmer, Christine leaned into his frame heavily for comfort, finding him strong and steady amidst the dizziness and confusion she felt. His grip on her was firm and protective, and more than anything it reminded her that here, in his arms, was the safest place she could be. Ignoring how it made her stomach flip, she made herself take another sip of cognac.

"There is bread on the plate in front of you,” Erik said. “It will settle your stomach, and while it will probably come back up, being ill will be less painful on your throat."

Christine was grateful for his consideration, as disgusting as she might find the logic of eating something knowing you're only going to see it again. Forcing herself to mechanically chew and swallow between sips of honeyed cognac, she understood that she had to trust him: he had never failed her yet.

"How much longer?" She asked hopelessly, sinking further into the strength of his posture. Christine knew that the amount she was enjoying the feeling of his fingers through her hair was probably quite unbecoming, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care. She desperately needed the comfort.

"It's been a day since you first drank the wine," he explained. "I will continue to dose you with alcohol over the next forty-eight hours, but you will need less each time."

She nodded. Blinking, she asked suddenly, "Did the fire get a little dimmer?"

"No, dove. Are you cold?"

"I have chills, but no, I'm not cold. Just… the light is dimmer than before."

Unlike the rest of her vision, this loss seemed to genuinely sadden her. He sighed in understanding, knowing how his Christine loved the sun. He pulled her closer to him after relieving her of her plate and glass. "The light might fade completely, or it might stay. To be honest, I am not so sure. I am right here, Christine."

She nodded again, the warmth of the alcohol beginning to wash over her. "Thank you, Erik."

He said nothing, as he usually did when she expressed gratitude. A pause settled between them, and in those few minutes, she found that the dose of alcohol actually helped her headache considerably. When she spoke again, her voice was soft, but not pained like before. "May I ask you something?"

"Of course," came his kind reply.

Everything was going exactly according to his plan, and so he was gentle as a lamb. For the first time in his experience with another person, there was no longer any reason for him to use force. In fact, he seemed to make more forward progress than ever with lenience and compassion. 

While she found the right words to say, she seemed a little nervous. "I… I want to ask for something, but I also don’t want to sound ungrateful. Especially after everything you have done for me."

His voice, so resonant and beautiful, was especially tender in his response. He was determined to prove to her that her trust in him was well-placed.

"You could request diamonds, and I would ask how many. Tell me what it is you need."

She chewed at her lip, as she always did when she was mulling something over.

"This would obviously not be for a long time, as I know how much this would require," she said softly. "And I don't want you to think that I don't like it here, because I do! But some time in my life, I would like to live in the sunshine again."

He said nothing for a long time after she fell silent, but she allowed him that quiet in order to think. She knew that- for a man like Erik- this was something unimaginable to ask for.

"Oh, my Christine. I would love nothing more than to give you your wish, and I certainly have the resources to do so." Even so, she recognized that he sounded sad. "But even though you cannot see me, how do you expect the rest of polite society to tolerate having me in their midst?"

At this, there was another long pause, in which she was the one to contemplate a reply. Finally, she asked, "Erik, how old are you?"

"Why, my dear, that is a question I have been asking myself for quite some time. Though, when I was a child, the first date I remember hearing was 1845."

Another pause, in which she did some math. If what he said was true, then he had to be in his early-to-mid forties by now. This is exactly what she was hoping for.

"That means you would have been around thirty…" she trailed off. Suddenly, a little tale spun itself in her head. "You injured your face in the war. Still, you remained a patron of the opera due to your love of music. That is how we met."

His eyes widened in surprise. Apparently, his intelligent little songbird was not as inebriated as her relaxed body- draped lazily across his chest- had led him to believe. And really, once he thought it over for a moment, it was brilliant. Her explanation would leave no room for question, especially in the minds of strangers: the war had sent many, once-beautiful men home permanently disfigured. He was realizing more every day that this was no longer the world of his youth, so intolerant to change or difference. There was still much more to be done, but maybe, just maybe, he did not have to spend the rest of his life hiding in fear.

"Clever girl," he cooed, running his long fingers through her flaxen hair. "A disfigured war hero stumbles upon a blind, blonde little cherub. How… utterly convenient."

He allowed her a moment to laugh- and he did too- at the inside joke that would only be theirs. They would have to find some way to explain how Christine Daae- the toast of this year's managers gala- suddenly became blind, but they would figure that out later. For now, he was all too eager to play into her fantasy, as it quickly became his own.

"All right, then. I will begin looking for property once we are married."

At his words, her breath caught in her throat. Stuttering, she replied, "You really want to marry me?"

If only she could see the incredulous expression on his unmasked features. "Silly girl. It has been my dream since the first night you spent in this house."

A hot blush rose to her cheeks then, helped significantly by the cognac. Words were becoming hard, but she still voiced her surprise.

"But… I have no status. And you're so rich…"

He gave a low chuckle. "Yes, Christine. I might have an absurd amount of money, but I think you are forgetting where we are.” He paused for a moment to allow reality to sink in again. While the house on the lake was lavishly decorated- and even had hot water on tap- one must remember that it was five stories below the surface of the earth. “I have no status, either. Not even a last name."

There was a momentary pause. Then, she said quietly, "Well, you will have to choose one. I will need it, too."

"I have always been particularly fond of  _ Geiger." _ He a bsentmindedly twirled one of her long curls between his fingers. "It means  _ violin player _ ."

"If that's so, then my father would have loved if I married a Geiger."

"Well, then, let's not disappoint him.” As he stared into the burning fire, he could not suppress the joyous expression on his bare face. He then remembered that he didn’t need to anymore. “Of course, we will have to wait until you are twenty-one, but that is not long."

It was true. Her twenty-first birthday was fast approaching: two months from now, in April.  _ Before a few weeks ago _ , she thought,  _ she was to marry Raoul de Chagny this May. Certainly, he still thought this was happening _ .

Despite the beginnings of a pleasant banter, Erik felt Christine tense in his arms. He was about to ask, until she said dreadfully, "I'm going to be sick."

He simply sighed, knowing she would not be granted reprieve for long. Holding her over the side of the sofa, he watched as she gagged pitifully, but nothing came up. Her body seemed to know, instinctually, to keep the alcohol in. Despite how sick it was making her, it truly was the necessary medicine.

"Relax, breathe through your nose," he instructed, despite having no personal experience in the matter. She shook her head, unconvinced, still retching. “ _ Trust me. Breathe. It will stop. _ ”

Despite how hopeless it felt, Christine tried desperately to believe him. One of her small hands gripped his arm around her waist, and she centered herself in his rigid strength. Not once had he failed her in that regard, and she trusted the impossible brawn contained in each tendon of his skeletal frame. She allowed him to bear the entirety of her weight as she closed her eyes tightly and took a shaking breath in through her nose.

“Good girl.” Even with one of his hands occupied with holding back her golden hair, his tight grip on her was easy for Erik to maintain. “In through your nose,” he reminded her. “Remember your diaphragm, strong singing breaths.”

Despite how ironic she found the comparison, she couldn’t help but obey his instruction. She had become accustomed to it through countless hours of voice lessons, but Erik’s will was absolute in all things: there was never any better alternative, and confidence in his knowledge was paramount. Disobedience only led to prolonged discomfort. Continuing to cling to him like a frightened child, she focused on the familiar feeling of expanding her ribcage as she breathed through the reflex to gag.

He continued to speak tenderly as her body finally relaxed its protests, and eventually he could pull her away from the chamber pot and settle her back on the sofa. He hesitated a moment before leaving her side, and while his absence initially dismayed her, she didn’t have the strength to ask where he was going. She was dizzy from the cognac and her head hurt more than ever now, and as she closed her eyes against the light of the fire, she was relieved when he quickly returned to his place at her side.

"I’m here," Erik cooed. “It will be over soon, I promise.”

While he spoke Christine could hear him tinkering with a glass. She feared the worst and would have fought against it, but her body was too slack from her previous drink. Thankfully, when he lifted the glass to her lips, she didn’t smell cognac. It was more milk and honey, just a mouthful or two; while she grimaced at the obvious acrid tinge, she swallowed it without a hint of argument.

“Excellent, that’s it.” He took the glass from her once it was emptied of its meager contents, simply grateful to have such a docile patient. “You’re a smart girl, Christine. You know it will help.”

She nodded to show that she understood, but decided that it was best to rest her throat. Besides, speaking wouldn’t change anything now. He had taken care of her as well as he was able, but now there was nothing else to be done until his treatment worked as he was confident it would. Every part of her felt exhausted and ill, and she ceased to even give a thought to propriety as she hid her eyes in the space under his collarbone. More than anything, she just needed to be held until it was over.

It was very strange for him, accepting that he had the ability to comfort someone. Possessing the face of death, it was understandable that others would not find his appearance reassuring. She tore his mask from his face then screamed at the sight all the same, just a few short months ago. Now, though, Christine could no longer dread what she could not see: beautifully blind, Erik was free to soothe her just like anyone else. Once she was wrapped tightly in his arms, she felt safe enough to rest. A familiar, artificial drowsiness settled over her soon after, and as he gently stroked her hair, she drifted off into the morphine-induced sleep she desperately needed.


End file.
